


Coming Home

by AshenBee



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Iwaizumi is best boy, M/M, literal tooth-rotting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshenBee/pseuds/AshenBee
Summary: Oikawa arrives back in Japan from Argentina one night.--------------------------Oikawa Week Day 7: Travelling
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 8
Kudos: 150
Collections: Oikawa Week 2020





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Furudate-sensei for creating Haikyuu!! and everyone in it. We couldn't have asked for a better ending.
> 
> Also thank you @yllirya for being my beta reader.
> 
> This is actually not my first Iwaoi piece, but it is the first piece I've posted. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Haps bidet, Oikawa. You deserve everything.

It is late and long past midnight when Oikawa finally arrives at the apartment. The street outside is dark and deserted except for his taxi pulling away and disappearing into the night, breaking the silence. The air is thick, the smell of wet cement that floats around him nostalgic and comforting. He rifles through his backpack for his keys, tiredness pulling at his brain as he pushes past his passport and wallet and tissues and scraps of paper from the trip. He eventually digs them out and locates the apartment key, inserting it into the lock and turning. He winces when it clicks loudly; the sound seems deafening in the middle of the night. Oikawa pauses before gingerly pressing down on the handle and pulling the door open as his heart quickens almost imperceptibly.

Light suddenly pours out of the hallway and shines bright in his eyes. Squinting slightly, Oikawa steps into the refreshingly cool entryway, dragging his suitcase behind him, his arms complaining after a long day of lugging it around for hours on end. He rolls it up against the wall; he could deal with it in the morning. Just as the door is about to swing shut behind him, he remembers his keys and turns to reach round and pull them from the lock outside. Easing the door closed, he locks it as slowly as possible to avoid making noise, his fingers tired and clumsy, then turns back to the apartment with a sigh.

The small door at the end of the hallway is shut, darkness greeting him through the frosted glass panel. Oikawa suppresses a whine in his throat as his head falls forward; his body is so tired and exhausted, he can barely stand the idea of changing.

He lifts his head with what seems to be a gargantuan effort. Oikawa can just _see_ his bed in his mind’s eye: he visualises himself speeding through the apartment, from entrance to kitchen to living room to futon, stripping off his travel-sweat-soaked clothes as he goes, and he imagines a best-case scenario where he is in bed and asleep in under two minutes flat. Almost as soon as the image has taken root—he can already _feel_ the futon under him, the pillow soft against his head, the covers smooth against his skin—Oikawa takes a deep breath and holds it, then lets it out with another huge sigh, his shoulders drooping in resignation.

Oikawa places his keys on the side shelf on top of a pile of mail—he notices his name peeking out through the window of the topmost envelope, and imagines the whole stack is for him—and steps out of his shoes onto the wood, foregoing the slippers that have been laid out. He pads over to the door in his socks, shrugging off his backpack and holding it in one hand. Gently opening the door into the kitchen, he pokes his head through cautiously.

The light from the hallway spills in and over the empty sink, illuminating a single pot, a glass, and a couple of plates in the drying rack. He admires the sparkling gleam of the range top; it gives him the same feeling as walking into a clean hotel room, while also being simultaneously familiar and welcoming. Gratitude blooms in his chest at the knowledge that the whole apartment will be similarly tidy, and then Oikawa is suddenly glad that he chose to leave his suitcase by the front entrance instead of wrangling it into the apartment.

His eyes drift to the tall kitchen table in the middle of the room, where they land on a small box hidden in the shadow cast by his body. Oikawa blinks a few times, trying to make out the item. He steps in, leaving the door ajar and placing his backpack on the floor, then walks forward as he takes off his jacket, hanging it on the back of a bar stool pushed under the table. Up close, he can see now that it is a plastic container. Then, as if it had materialised out of nowhere, he notices a small tent of paper next to the box. Curious, he picks up the note written in sharp, familiar handwriting.

_—If you’re hungry_

He turns the note over and sees more words on the underside.

_—welcome back_

A grin breaks out across his face and his cheeks complain at the sudden usage. He places the note back on the table and cracks open the container—and his heart stutters at the loud pop of the lid. He holds his breath, listening to the silence around him, unable to gauge how loud the sound really was in his tiredness. Then the smell of chocolate wafts out and Oikawa’s heart soars as he sees that there are brownies inside, each bite-sized square dotted with large chocolate chunks and flakes of salt. His stomach, unsympathetic to his cause, suddenly grumbles noisily as his mouth fills with saliva, turning his grin into a grimace. When had he last eaten? He reasons that it must have been on the plane, but his sleep-addled brain has wiped his memory of the last few hours and he can no longer recall his most recent meal. He only knows that he is suddenly starving; his stomach is aching and complaining alongside the rest of his body now.

Oikawa pulls out one brownie and inspects the enticingly fudgy interior, surprised at the weight of the small square; last time he had eaten home-made brownies, they had been light and spongy. Swallowing, he eagerly takes a bite out of the corner—although it ends up being more like half—and suppresses a moan of delight at the rich flavour that floods his mouth. It is smooth and dense and creamy, the bitterness of the dark chocolate chunks and the salt flakes working to balance out and emphasise the sweetness, altogether creating a dangerously delicious treat; and Oikawa almost wants to cry it’s so good. He can already feel some energy spreading through his body even as his cheeks ache and his muscles cry out for sleep. He also thinks that he may never buy anyone else’s brownies ever again.

(He then remembers the dulce de leche brownies in Argentina and knows that this will not be the case for long.)

The other half of the brownie is gone in seconds. Oikawa takes one more and then reluctantly closes the container, putting the note on top. He pops this one in his mouth whole, revelling in the taste and texture. He turns around to reach for the glass in the drying rack and fills it from the tap, then holds it up to his lips while he finishes chewing and savouring his brownie, thinking that he _really wants another_ but that he also really wants to enjoy them tomorrow, when he isn’t on the verge of passing out on his feet. He looks to the container longingly. Then, his eyes settle on the note and he puts the glass down. He picks up the note and folds it the other way, so that _welcome back_ faces forwards, and puts it back on top of the lid with a satisfied nod. Swallowing the last of his brownie, he takes the water and downs the whole glass in one long series of gulps, reminiscent of a salaryman drinking his first beer of the night after a long day of work. Oikawa lets out a satiated sigh, closing his eyes and letting his head hang back. He finally feels energised, and suddenly the prospect of changing and showering before getting in bed is not so daunting.

Determination coursing through him, Oikawa straightens back up, fills the glass again and drinks half, then pours the rest away and leaves the empty glass in the sink.

He tiptoes over to the door of the living room, sliding it open to peek inside: the curtains have been pulled shut over the large window and the room is dark save for the flashing lights of the wifi router in the corner, which twinkle and reflect off the screen of the television and the surface of the kotatsu. The smell of the tatami is nostalgic, although stronger than he remembered. From across the room, he can just make out the quiet hum of the air conditioning unit on the other side of the bedroom doors. Oikawa once again considers heading straight to bed, but then thinks better of it and backs out, sliding the door almost shut. Every single muscle in his body complains, wanting only to lie down and not move an inch until morning.

Oikawa turns on the lights in the bathroom area, grimacing at the whirring of the extractor fan. Shutting the door behind him, he starts to peel the sweaty clothes off his body, desperate to get into the shower, but then finds himself wrestling with his trousers when they bunch up and get stuck around his ankles; it seems to take more effort than his strongest jump serve to finally pull them free. With a frustrated grunt, Oikawa drops them on the floor and leans against the washing machine, feeling exhausted and defeated. He closes his eyes, wondering if he’s already used up the energy from those brownies on just getting out of his clothes… and in the next moment realises that he didn’t bring a towel or even a fresh set of underwear in with him. Groaning, he opens his eyes, resigning himself to digging through his suitcase for something to wear _—_

And his eyes land on a set of clean alien-print pyjamas and a towel, neatly folded on top of the washing machine lid, right in front of him. It takes Oikawa a moment to process the information before he lets out a small chuckle—barely a huff of breath—and relief and gratitude once again spread through his chest. He bites his lip, fighting back a smile as he pushes off the washing machine and discards his underwear, climbing into the shower.

Not 10 minutes later, Oikawa is clean and refreshed and more than ready to crawl straight into bed. Switching off all the lights, he crosses the dark kitchen with the aide of the glow from the hot water control screen, the 01:13 of the digital display dyeing the room green. He steps into the living room and moves swiftly over the tatami to the bedroom, where he rests his hand on the door a moment; his chest is tight with excitement and he can’t help but grin. Taking a deep breath, he slides the door open just enough to slip inside, closing it gently against his fingers so as not to make any noise.

Oikawa turns to face the unexpectedly bright room, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise when he realises that the overhead night light is still on. He takes in the comfortably cool air and the two futons, one empty and waiting and inviting, the other occupied by an ever-familiar large body and long limbs that poke out from under the covers; one foot is so close to him that he could reach out and nudge it with his own. He smiles to himself, his heart squeezing.

He pads round to his futon and switches off the night light, plunging the room into darkness as he slides under the cold covers. Stretching out on his back, Oikawa relaxes into the absolute bliss that is lying down after a long day of travelling. He shifts, feeling the joints in his back pop as he gets comfy and the tension slowly starts to seep out of his tired muscles. A long, drawn-out sigh escapes his body and he closes his eyes, his lids heavy.

Next to him, he hears shuffling.

Without opening his eyes, Oikawa calls on the dregs of his energy and reaches his hand out lazily, searching for the edge of the other futon. His fingers meet warm skin and he rolls over, his hand stroking up over smooth muscles. He hears a small murmur. He shifts closer, his torso leaving the confines of his futon as his hand traces a familiar path over the swell of a shoulder and down a strong back.

"Mmm… 'kawa?"

The words are slurred and muffled with sleep, but it feels like coming home.

"I’m back, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi groans quietly and shifts, rolling onto his side. Oikawa snakes his hand round and spreads his fingers against the warm skin of Iwaizumi’s bare back, relishing the supple curve of muscles that he hasn’t touched in months. He pulls himself onto Iwaizumi’s futon, the covers bunching up against his shoulder and knees; it’s much warmer than his bed, although this is unsurprising considering that _Iwa-chan is practically a walking radiator_.

With a grunt, Iwaizumi pulls his hand free from under his pillow and lifts the covers, giving Oikawa space to fully slide under and settle close against his chest before he drops his arm over him. His fingers stroke along Oikawa’s spine through his thin shirt.

Iwaizumi’s light caresses send a pleasant shiver through Oikawa’s entire body; he snuggles closer, trying to envelop himself in the ever-present warmth that accompanies Iwaizumi wherever he goes. His nose pressed into the crook of his neck, Oikawa breathes in deeply, basking in the clean, musky scent that is so familiar and comforting and _Iwaizumi._ He pushes his feet against Iwaizumi’s and their legs tangle, and he sighs contentedly, nuzzling against Iwaizumi’s skin. Oh, how he had missed this.

Iwaizumi lets out another small groan, his arm tightening against Oikawa and his chin pressing into his hair.

"W’lcome back, 'kawa."

Oikawa smiles and places a soft kiss against his collarbone.

"You’re slow, Iwa-chan."

Oikawa angles his head and places a second kiss against Iwaizumi’s neck, a third higher. He shifts up and reaches to place a fourth against the underside of Iwaizumi’s jaw, noting the smooth skin, freshly shaven.

Iwaizumi pulls away, then leans down and presses a firm kiss to Oikawa’s lips, his arm tightening again. Oikawa’s heart stutters and a small sound escapes his throat. He tilts his head and his hand grasps at Iwaizumi’s back; he has missed this, needs this; he wants to be closer, is aching to be wrapped up in Iwaizumi’s warmth—his scent—his hands—his mouth—

Oikawa’s heartbeat picks up and blood pumps faster through his body even as his brain continues to feebly cry out for sleep; when Iwaizumi pulls away, Oikawa follows with another kiss, this one softer but beckoning. He reaches his other arm up to stroke along Iwaizumi’s jaw, pulling gently with his fingertips.

There is only a second of hesitation before Iwaizumi responds, huffing a breath out through his nose as he kisses back again, pushing Oikawa into the pillow. Oikawa’s hand trails over his cheek and threads through his hair, fingers sliding against the short strands, while his other hand glides over the smooth expanse of Iwaizumi’s back, stroking down from his shoulders all the way to the waistband of his pants. Iwaizumi’s own hand mirrors his, causing Oikawa to shudder as his deft fingers dip under the material of Oikawa’s shirt and trace the contours of his back.

Their hands are warm and slow and relaxing despite the insistence of their lips, and the tender caresses and pressing kisses set off a war within Oikawa’s body as he battles between exhaustion and the craving for this man that he hasn’t seen for months. He suspects that Iwaizumi feels the same when he weakly grabs at his hair and pulls him closer, eliciting a groan that rumbles pleasantly against Oikawa’s skin.

But exhaustion proves to be a worthy opponent, and as their hands slow and eventually still, their heated kisses also grow gentle again, turning soft and lingering. Reluctantly, they finally separate when Iwaizumi drops his head back onto the pillow, his breath warm on Oikawa’s lips. Oikawa ghosts another kiss over Iwaizumi’s mouth before settling against the pillow and touching their noses together with a smile. His heart feels full to bursting as his pulse slows and his body winds down, sleep fast approaching.

Iwaizumi nudges his nose, his other arm only now emerging from under the pillow to reach under Oikawa’s head and neck, wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him close. He touches his lips to Oikawa’s again, barely a kiss, and whispers, "Missed you."

Oikawa smiles against his mouth, feeling sleep pulling him under—his body is already gone, his muscles void of energy, his mind quickly following.

"Missed you too."

And then they are both asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still processing that Haikyuu!! is over. It's been an incredible ride, and that ending was perfect.
> 
> When I wrote this, I was imagining Iwaizumi as a PT in Japan and Oikawa as a pro in Argentina. Then 402 came out and I was super chuffed with myself--chuffed enough that I felt the need to explain that I wrote this before 402 hahaha  
> (Not that any reference is made to Iwaizumi's job in this, plus he's an AT not a PT, and I hadn't quite considered that Oikawa had renounced his Japanese citizenship, but those are small details that I will conveniently gloss over)
> 
> I also didn't actually plan to write this for Oikawa Week, but then it fit with the Day 7: Travelling prompt, so yeah. Now it's part of Oikawa Week.
> 
> Also, I want to thank the wonderful @yllirya (again) for being my beta reader. I first wrote this in about 3 hours over the weekend after a burst of inspiration, and then @yllirya beta read it and pointed out the fact that I had used Oikawa's name all of one (1) time until Iwaizumi appeared.  
> Seriously, this would have been a much lesser (and shorter) piece without your feedback, so thank you<3
> 
> Side note: the stupid brownie nearly got more screen time than Iwaizumi. For that I apologise. But I also urge you: find yourself someone who can make you food that will literally feed your soul. I promise you won't regret it (except for when you crave their food and can't have it, in which case you might write unnecessarily long and detailed descriptions of said food in order to trick yourself into thinking that your craving has been satisfied)
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this!  
> Here's to more fics for the best boys to ever grace the halls of my shipping soul.


End file.
